Misery Guts

i.

R. C. Saunders, inmate no. 9320, paroled, steps out upon a stone that reads:

It’s never too late to mend.

Above, a barking tree squirrel flutters its tail; a startled starling abandons its perch to see which way the wind is blowin’, and a guard in the tower—not one to cut things fine—sticks to his guns. Below, a great-American jackrabbit scurries; dandelions, free little white puffs of cloud to the breeze; and pink and yellow tulips line a meandering path in full swing of late July. Behind, claustrophobic sounds of imprisonment go in one ear and come out the other, as a towering wall of limestone block casts its dark shadow onto the ground—swallowing up the innocence of the prairie. Ahead, opportunity in unknown quantity awaits.

Saunders: Lips pursed, weary lines furrowed across a forehead lathered in sienna skin—a hand-me-down from a Cherokee grandmother—threadbare chore coat swung over the shoulder with a hooked finger, Kroger cap slapped on the back of the skull like a cockeyed crown. The old crook keeps his beady eyes—a tiny as a mustard seed—focused firmly on the horizon.

Holding the key to the grievous institution, Boss: A short, squat man, lock-kneed, rocks on his heels like a boy about to piss himself. Adjusting his officer’s cap on his balding head with one hand, baton in the other, Boss has become the law unto himself. With restless, shifty eyes, unable to find a thing of worth to settle upon, tics a nostril to the voice lingering deep inside, a voice scratching at the inside of the skull, a rat trapped inside a maze. A father’s resentment simmers, “Ain’t never gonna account for nothin’.” Boss, glaring daggers at his lesser, “Sad you’re leavin’ so soon, Saunders. Took a mighty fine shine to ya, boy.”

In a gravelly tone, eyes unmoved, “Can’t say the same, Boss.”

“Well, we’ll be seein’ ya,” with a hack, spit, and swivel on the ball of the foot—the loggerhead having grown rather stale—Boss makes his way for the doniker.

“Don’t wait supper on me,” says Saunders, stepping forth.

Taking the bait: a smack of the baton to the hand and a clench of the bladder, “I’ll keep a plate warm in the oven for ya.”

“Wouldn’t hold your breath, Boss.”

Iron-on-iron—the gate screeches shut, and the startled starling, circles around once more.

It’s early days yet. Whistlin’ Rufus, Saunders feels on top of the world. The country road, rough and dusty, rutted from the spring rains—19.2” so far this year—rolls on endless. Sunflowers and daisies. A hovering bumblebee keeps the old crook on his toes, digging his heels determinedly under the blistering sun. Uncertain of his chosen direction, Saunders carries forth nonetheless—fate mapped out on the palm of his hand. Cloudless sky. A’ breeze a-blowin’ and with a putt-putterin’ swoosh, knowing better than to stop, the toffee-nosed driver glares back at the rough diamond he’s left in the dust.

Paying no mind, Saunders jumps the fence of a humble farm and slips into a cow barn. He considers making himself right at home under an udder until a wayward chicken cluckin’ about makes his mouth water. He decides to make a go of it as a chicken thief. But that poultry dish has got one hell of a chip on its shoulder, scratching at his arms, sounding the air raid siren—letting the cat out of the bag, so to speak. And what follows is the creak and slap of a screen door, and with a curse, Saunders throws the bird to the ground. The flustered fowl scurries off, leaving old Saunders in a bit of a lurch. And in a sudden gruff bark—one familiar to the land—a cold fish of an old man hardwearing for the barn hollers, “Alright, come on out now—know yer in there.” Making himself loud and clear with the COCK of a shotgun. Saunders makes like a banana and splits. The blast of the 12-gauge takes the paint off the rail and nearly the hide off his ass—the old crook gettin’ away by the skin of his teeth.

End of days: Fizzlin’ an’ poppin’, the tangerine sun caught red-handed, hot in the act of cooling off in an ocean of prairie grass. Cool, calm, and collected, Saunders veers off the country road for a goat trail—a slight disturbance in the rows of corn. Beyond the knee-high tassels, a dark mound looms in a distant tree line. Approaching curiously, the mass covered in brush, a Ford Model T—the car of the century—long lost and forgotten. Old rusty cans—lids sawed off by wandering tramps—heap about, and Saunders kicks a tire with a dull thud, trying to remove the stubborn Midwestern mud from his boot. Though the top is dry rot, he figures the Tin Lizzie will make as good a place as any to hunker down for the night. So, he plops down on the squeaky seat, kicks up his legs, fashions a pillow out of his chore coat, shades his eyes with his cap, and lets his mind wander: “Ain’t nothin’ but a good for nothin’ crook!” Eight years since she last spoke, “What about the kids? Ain’t you ever think of the kids?” Sure, she liked to give her old man hell for everything, from drinking too much to not taking out the trash. And it was right by her, offering up a piece of her mind, just as her ma had given her pa—though Ma had put an eight-inch railroad spike in Pa’s eye socket one night after a gallon of Moon Beam. He stuffed it with a wad of cotton and went to work the next day. Her pa never said a word about it, and she admired him for taking his fair shake.

But with a knock on the door, Saunders panics and grabs the bundle of cash his old lady found under the mattress. Money she hollered over. Greenbacks she’d already spent on that silver bracelet sitting behind glass down at Berringer’s Department Store—figuring there’d be plenty left over for a new pair of silk shoes, a dress—hell, maybe even a new ribbon. When the cops kick in the door, the kids cry. And Johnny Law takes their pa away. And that silver bracelet? Well, hell, it remains behind glass as old Saunders spends an eight-year stint behind bars up at Joliet Penn. A grievous institution: Where it’s never too late to mend!

Hell, if I hadn’t been hounded by bad luck, I’d made sergeant by God, he believes. After all, it wasn’t my fault that bastard corporal stepped on my toes. An’ the lieutenant, well he didn’t have to cut my buttons off after all. Hell, he deserved that knuckle sandwich, if ya ask me. But I ‘spose I didn’t have to bash his head into the door frame like that. But hell, what was I to do? Couldn’t see any other way about it. And holdin’ up them trains—why can’t she see I was jus’ lookin’ out for the kids, is all? Hell, I’ll show her. Lay some pavers. Save up some brass and open my own store—running his fingers proudly across his name painted high on a sign above the bustling street:

Saunders Mercantile

A blanket of mist envelopes the thicket, and a lingering blue hue on the horizon fades to black. Ahead, limbs moan like old arthritic bones. All is up in the air, and Saunders knows it. Squirming about the cracked leather—flippin’ and floppin’, seeking the sweet spot upon sprung coils—the steering wheel stabs him in the back. But his eyelids grow heavy, and he arrives at the gates of dreamland, just as a devilish cry catches him napping and takes his breath away with a godawful YELP. A real eye-opener, jolting Saunders awake and spurring him to his knees. The city slicker takes a good look-see into the night. It’s jus’ lookin’ for somethin’ to eat, he thinks, hopefully not me, he hopes, go away, he prays as cans clank. Saunders is all ears, the growls are sinister. More yelping in the distance. Demonic-children-chitter-chatter. Lizzy shakes with a sudden, violent nudge. And an ear-piercing cry sends an ice-cold shiver up Saunders’ spine. He covers his ears to block out the horrific shrill and lets out a blood-curdling scream of his own that erupts from his throat. Echo—silence—echo. Curled up in a ball on the floorboard, he hugs his knees, eyes clenched tight, heart pounding against the inside of his sternum. And a quick spat of spasms leaves him in whinin’ whimper.

But suddenly, there is calm, and a long-held breath is released. Blood rushes back into his knuckles. And in no time, the leaves come around, gentle rustling within a sleepy breeze. The mist snuggles up about the cottonwood, Lizzy settles down upon her airless tires, and a disarming crescendo of cicadas lures the old crook back to slumber.

Early rising, Saunders lumbers to his feet into the damp grass. Birds sing. Eyeballs afloat, he’s Whistlin’ Dixie, wetting the lettuce and his Vici Kid Welts. “Son of a bitch,” he curses, checking the tires. Hungry as a horse, he circles about the empty cans. Empty belly grumbling, he throws up his hands in disbelief. “Hell, some hobo is eatin’ better than me.” Looking about for a stone to throw—seeing he’s got a hankering for quail—he blows a raspberry, huffs, and hollers. But hearing a sharp snap, he ducks behind the Lizzy, unable to shake the knife’s edge—knowing liberty is ever fleeting for a man like him.

A man like him. Uncle Sam, having a good belief good criminals make even better soldiers, orders Saunders to rank and file—behest time served. But old Saunders has one hell of a temper on him, a devil inherited from his pa. A devil Pa switched into him and never was able to switch out. His rage takes on a persona of its own. Call itself Godspell. In uniform, he carries along on the train to Fort Sheridan, Godspell tucked up tight in a carpetbag slung over his shoulder. And, of course, it’s not long before old Saunders is caught stealing twenty pounds of beef shank from the slop. And when Godspell cracks the lieutenant’s skull on the doorframe, he finds himself in court once more, only this time, before a federal magistrate. After a good stint in the brig, Levinworth spits him right out on the sidewalk like the soggy sunflower seed. And a man like him, well, he resorts to holding up not one but two Southern Illinois trains, with the help of his cousin Hank—getting himself all tangled with the law once again.

After eight long years in Joliet, the old crook finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Wandering about, parched, he finds only a ditch as dry as a bone. “Son of a gun biscuit eater!” he shouts and resorts to searching the old Ford for a loose cigarette, finding only a red scrap of paper under the seat that reads:

$1,000 will be paid for the capture or taking of any robber, Dead or Alive!

He plops down. Gives the steering wheel a good shake, surrendering in a miserable slouch. But out the corner of the eye, something peculiar on that poster asks for another look-see. He snags it, and a grin spreads from ear to ear. Seeing green, “Well, I’ll be doggone, the lord is my shepherd, I shall not want!” Seeing against all odds, on the back of that poster, a sketch of a small town. Its business district. Two “gets” and the “ins and outs” of a bank, so to speak. The number of guards on duty:

One

The possible sum to be stolen:

$85,000 cash

“One heck of a money-spinner,” if he does say so himself.

Now, “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” but old Saunders has got himself a case of itchy palm. So, the seasoned crook does what any bird of his feather might. He gets his act together. Straightens his spine. Tucks in his round collared shirt. Lifts his suspenders. Throws his chore coat over his shoulder. Situates his cap like a cockeyed crown and puts himself back on the map. With a skip in his step, Saunders is back in action—the rusty old crook oiling his joints—Whistlin’ Rufus—strolling down the country lane in high form, eyes on the horizon, making his way for greener pastures, well-heeled and oiled, the foregone conclusion on his mind, divine intervention—a bet worth chancin’ the arm.

But truth be told, old Saunders need not touch the old scout map with a twenty-foot barge pole, seeing he needs that one-way ticket about as much as a hole in the head. The bottom line: When you’re on this path, you’ve hit rock bottom and ought soon enough to see the shape of things to come.

Fact is, when you’re left holding the baby, it’s only a matter of time: Misery guts.